Blame
by purple pineapples
Summary: He doesn't want her love, but he'll take it. And he will abuse it. One-sided SasuNaru, one-sided SasuSaku.


_**Summary:**_ _He doesn't want her love, but he'll take it. And he will abuse it. One-sided SasuNaruSasu, one-sided SasuSaku._

 _ **A/N:**_ _I never thought that I would write something like this, as I passionately sail the ship that is SasuNaru/NaruSasu, but after deliberating how Sasuke and Naruto might have_ _ **(spoiler alert, but who doesn't know by this point?)**_ _come to pair with Sakura and Hinata in Chapter 700, I found myself almost unconsciously writing this angsty scene._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own the Naruto series or any of its characters. Kishimoto is still writing and going… "strong?"_

 **BLAME  
_**

He doesn't know how he's found himself in such a situation; a situation in which pale and slender arms are slowly snaking around his neck, and hot breath is lightly brushing against his cheek. He doesn't know how he's allowed this to happen, how he's allowed whatever this is to be taken so far. He doesn't think he wants this to go any further, but he desperately craves this warmth and attention.

There's little moonlight coming in through the sheer curtains, casting a pale blue light on a slender figure, and he finds himself grateful for the darkness. He's always been grateful for the darkness.

He's taking in what little he can, his eyes hungrily devouring curved angles, slim and petite, light skin, much lighter than his own, as he feels soft hands, no trace of callouses from strenuous training, playing with the long hair against his neck.

This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong...

But his eyes continue to trail further, ignoring the bile he feels welling up inside of him because he knows he needs this. He takes in the slender neck he knows he could snap like a twig. It's not as if the thought hasn't crossed his mind on occasion, but he halts almost instantly, feeling slightly nauseas when his eyes finally reach _pink_ hair cascading around the slender neck.

He doesn't make any movement, but he can feel those eyes upon him, and he is somehow able to compose himself. After a few shaky breaths, he forces himself to stare at _her_ lips, lingering at her _feminine_ jaw line because he can't bring himself to meet her eyes.

Her _emerald_ eyes.

It's not as if he's intimidated; he's never intimidated. No. He's simply ashamed. He's so broken and _weak,_ and he hates these feelings of inferiority. He needs to feel important; powerful, he needs to display his dominance, but he can't bring himself to move. He can't bring himself to touch her, to truly touch her. He knows what that would symbolize, and he doesn't want to give her any false hope.

He opts for trailing a finger down the length of her body, moving his hands slowly, gently at first before succumbing to the negativity and hurt eating away at his mind. He shoves her up against the wall and wishes he could get some satisfaction from seeing her eyes roll back in ecstasy and delight.

While he's losing the war in his mind, trying to determine his next move, questioning if this is what he truly wants, she's experiencing euphoria. She never thought this moment would come, and she's having a hard time processing the reality of it all.

She wants to savor this moment. Every lingering touch, every caress, every shove, anything that will prove she's not imagining this; she never wants to lose this memory. It means something to her; it always has, while he doesn't want to remember at all, only needing her warmth for this one instance. Feeding off of her desire for him, using her love to give him a sense of superiority and worth, wanting only one thing in this moment… for her to rid him of the pain he can't seem to suppress.

He leans down, exceedingly close to her face. They're noses are inches apart, and she can feel his hot breath against her cheek, smell the strong liquor on his breath, but she doesn't care. She doesn't try to suppress any of her feelings; she's suppressed them for far too long. She shudders, goosebumps immediately covering her skin, as she reels from the emotions and sensations he's evoking inside of her. She wonders if he knows what he does to her; if he knows the effect he has. She thinks he must know.

She instinctively closes her eyes, anxiously awaiting the moment when his lips will finally brush against hers, but the moment never comes. She opens her eyes slightly, peering out from little slits. Her mind is a little hazy as she's still experiencing the after-effects of this high. She's never felt quite like this before; the shaking in her knees, the fluttering in her stomach, and the pleasurable burn from where his hands linger. It's almost too much.

Being this close to him; being so intimate with the man she's been pining after for years… it's almost too much.

His hands are on either side of her head, his head and eyes are downcast. He's contemplating his next move, as he can't seem to rid his mind of the weak feelings of inferiority. He shouldn't be here. He should have said something, _done_ something; anything. He knows he'll regret this if he allows this to go any further, but… _oh God_ , he leans into the hand she's placed alongside his cheek.

He needs this; he needs to feel _something_ other than pain.

She can sense his distraction, and she fears he's having second thoughts. She doesn't want this moment to end and, dipping her head down slightly, her lips graze his forehead in a loving gesture, hoping to trail kisses along his strong jaw line.

She needs this; she needs his attention. She'll take anything he's willing to give her. She just needs him to focus on her and her, alone, in this one instance.

He's jolted out of his thoughts and staring back at her in shock. Her emerald eyes are filled with lust and her chest is rising and falling almost rhythmically. She's breathing heavy; he can feel the heat on his face. He can smell the wine on her breath, but he knows she's in her right mind, and he wishes he could say the same for himself.

She thinks she's received a positive reaction from him by the way he's staring so intently at her and feels her confidence slowly returning, the initial shock and uncertainty finally ebbing away. She tries to close the distance between them. She just wants to _feel_ him; she's waited so long for this moment and now that the moment is finally here, she can't wait anymore. She won't lose it.

Not when he's this close; not when she can see how badly they both need this. Her eyes close once again before she's the one caught off-guard, as she feels his strong hands come in contact with her arms.

She thinks he's going to bring her towards him. She's hoping he'll embrace her, but instead he grips the sides of her arms harshly, bringing her away from the wall only to forcefully shove her back into it with much more force than he had intended. He's unaware at how rough he's being; at how fragile she truly is, but he can't stop himself.

He leans down once again, his lips grazing her ear. He can feel her shudder beneath him when his breath begins to tickle the light hairs on her neck, and he can't help but smirk as he whispers…

"I'm in control" before glancing towards her to read her reaction. He's almost hoping she'll change her mind, but he isn't that fortunate. Her eyes are still half-lidded but she nods obligingly, biting her bottom lip and that's all the response he needs before carrying her over to the bed.

There is nothing romantic in the way he picks her up and drops her on the mattress. There is no adoration in the way he climbs on top of her, instantly shredding her of her all too familiar pink kimono. There is no affection in the way he forcefully enters her, not caring to pause long enough to check if she's comfortable. There is no love in the way he's pumping inside of her, gripping the sheets as she claws at his back, forcefully feeling her pull on his shoulders as she tries to bring them closer.

There is only lust and a hunger that can't possibly be satiated.

She instinctively whispers his name, finding herself overcome with pleasure as he falls into a steady, somewhat fast-paced rhythm. His eyes are closed as she stares up at him fondly, wishing he would just look at her, acknowledge that she's there with him. She wants him to see how he's making her feel; to see how much she loves him. On impulse, she reaches up to stroke his face affectionately in hopes of gaining his attention.

' _Just look at me!'_ She screams wildly in her head, as her arms are immediately pinned above her, his eyes never once opening, his pace never once letting up as she's continually pounded into the mattress. The small room is filled with musky air as light grunts and soft moans reverberate off of the bare walls.

He knows she needs this as much as he does, but he can't give her what she wants. He can't look at her, and he feels guilty for using her this way, but he's always been a little selfish in putting his desires first.

He's known of her feelings for years (how could he not?), although he's still unsure what it is about him that she supposedly loves so much. She can't possibly love him, yet here she is, allowing him to take, use, and abuse her affections. He feels sick, but he doesn't stop.

She isn't the one that he wants; she isn't the one that he's thinking about while he grinds against her body, but he can't stop. He needs this. He needs to feel the warmth of skin against his own. He needs to feel a body pressed against him, all while imagining rough, calloused hands roaming over his body, tan skin in deep contrast to his own, sunshine blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes.

He has to force himself not to cry out in longing for his lost lover. He bites the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood to keep from saying his name, but as he imagines the masculine hips of his best friend, as his nostrils are delusion-ally filled with his earthy scent, he says it…

The words come out breathlessly, instinctively, before he has a chance to fully process them. He realizes too late that he's made a horrible mistake when it's _her_ voice he hears responding in adoration, "Sasuke, I- I love you, too…" he falls onto the mattress in a haze while she nuzzles into his side, her head resting on his chest as he forces himself to remain calm and push the feelings of regret far from his mind.

Unconsciousness slowly consumes him as his mind drifts to the one he can never have. He missed his chance; that much is clear now. And what's worse is he knows how his love feels, knows that they could have had something more; something _real_. He can still recall the regretful ocean blue eyes wishing him; willing him to say something, as he stood on the altar next to the Hyuga heiress.

His love is not unrequited in the slightest; it never was, but now it's too late…

Had he said something during their final battle instead of internally confessing to himself, maybe things would be different… Maybe, had he prevented the man he grew to deeply love from proposing to someone unworthy of his affections… Had he spoken up, had he done something, _anything_ , they would be together in this moment. They would finally experience a sense of happiness they never knew existed.

But the moment is gone.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and wills himself to fall asleep, forces himself to ignore the weight on his chest and the scent of cherry blossoms that fill his nostrils. This is the decision he's made, the decision _they've_ made. He must accept the fact that Naruto will never be his; that they will be nothing more than best friends wishing for more.

And he must accept the fact that it is entirely his fault.

He is the one who pushed Naruto right in to Hinata's awaiting arms.

And he has no one to blame but himself.

 **END**


End file.
